


A Different Shade of Black

by Dawn1000



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blood and Violence, But it’s really an oc, F/F, F/M, M/M, Self-Insert, The Dance of the Dragons | Aegon II Targaryen v. Rhaenyra Targaryen Era, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000
Summary: A young woman is reincarnated as Rhaenyra Targaryen. Armed with knowledge of the future, she is determined to be remembered as more than just ‘The Half-Year Queen.’* Loke_Lyon's fic, 'The Blacks, the Greens and the Reds' inspired this one. Won't be borderline plagarism or anything though.* Title sucks, I know. Recomendations for a different one are welcome.
Relationships: Corlys Velaryon/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Aemon), Daemon Targaryen/Laena Velaryon, Joffrey Lonmouth/Laenor Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen & Laena Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen & Laenor Velaryon
Comments: 39
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loke_Lyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loke_Lyon/gifts).



Rhaenyra tugs at the sleeves of her dress and kisses Alicent Hightower's cheek, saying, "It is an honor to have you marry my Papa, my lady." That's a lie, of course- if she thought she could get away with it, the new Queen would be dead by now, by poison or an unfortunate carriage accident, or something else, if she was feeling particularly inspired. Her new step-mother smiles benevolently and presses a kiss to her brow and clasps her hands, promising to love her forever, as if she was her own daughter. White-hot rage courses through the princess.

 _Liar,_ Rhaenyra thinks, _The nerve you have to claim you would ever love me as well as Aemma Arryn did-_ But she doesn't say that. Instead, she forces an adoring smile and looks down at their joined hands, and says that would make her very happy.

It would not.

.

.

Within the first year of her father's marriage, his new Queen's belly swells. Rhaenyra chews at her lip when the news is brought to her attention, and Alicent, who at this point is still playing the role of doting step-mother, furrows her brow with concern.

"This child shall not replace you in neither your father's heart nor mine," she says, and it takes all Rhaenyra has not to laugh at the irony. "There is enough room here," she points at her chest, "For the both of you."

"I've always wanted a sister," the princess chirps, and Alicent smiles a small smile and replies:

"Let us hope for a brother first."

Rhaenyra embraces her, wraps her arms around her waist and burrows her face in the crook of her neck as she used to do with Aemma, the only mother she has ever known in _either_ of her lives, and seethes.

.

.

Aegon is born right on schedule, in the hundreth-and-seventh year after the Conquest. He's an ugly baby, Rhaenyra thinks, though that may be her own personal bias showing. She doesn't let her distaste be known, however, and asks her father eagerly if she can hold him. He smiles at her, all softness and warmth and love, and tells her to sit down beside Alicent.

She does.

When baby Aegon, the child who will _\- would have, not will,_ _ **never**_ _will-_ grow to be her murderer is set upon her lap, she regards him cooly. "I wanted a sister," she says, "But he'll do." The adults laugh, indulgent to what they believe are the whims of a child. She is only half-joking. Or japing, as she supposes. _Things would have been so much easier, little one, had you been a girl,_ Rhaenyra thinks, tracing a finger across his cheek.

Her brother smiles up at her and giggles.

.

.

Aegon is presented to the court after he's lived for two moons. Rhaenyra is standing at the base of the Iron Throne when Alicent enters the room, dressed in a green-and-white gown, the coat-of-arms of House Hightower embroidered above her breast. Courtiers murmur, already preparing to try to worm their way to the victorious Queen's side if they haven't already, and Father climbs down the steps and kisses his son's forehead.

Rhaenyra does the same.

"I am sure he will be a great and wise prince and an even better King one day," she says, and she truthfully, if she did not know what is to happen, she would mean it. She doesn't want to be Queen, doesn't want to have to look for poison in her cups and daggers in the dark, doesn't want to treat with rebellious vassals and manage the pit of vipers that is King's Landing. In another life, if she had been able to marry some lord, whether he be great or middling, taken some lady as her lover while her husband has his mistresses, and had a few children of her own, she would have been happy.

Alas, this is not that life, and these words will be her last effort to replace herself with Aegon.

_It is not too late yet. The realm can burn beneath him for all I care._

Alicent smiles warmly, and Rhaenyra is surprised by the affection in the look. Turning her gaze to her father, she hopes to see consideration there. Instead, she spies his signature stubborn frown, and curses mentally. It seems that he is still intent on keeping her as his heir.

(For someone who was Team Blacks when this was just a series, you'd think she'd be happier about that)

.

.

Rhaenyra is her father's cupbearer. That means she gets to see all the lickspittles cozying up to Alicent and that little shit, Otto, at Aegon's celebration feast. As Father includes her in his conversations and boasts about her academics, which Grand Maester Runciter has been quite impressed by, she sees the Hand frowning.

"Does something trouble you, ser?" she asks sweetly. He shakes his head and offers a bland smile.

"Adult matters, my princess," he replies. Rhaenyra's jaw clenches at the way he addresses her. He does not say, 'Your Grace,' as is the title befitting the heir to the Iron Throne, simply 'my princess,' as if she is just another royal broodmare. And yes, she has no desire to be Queen, but the blatant disrespect the man has shown her is enough to have her blood boiling.

_I have been a Targaryen too long._

Father's face darkens beside her, and Rhaenyra knows he has picked up on Otto's words as well. Before he can say anything, a Hightower man raises a goblet of wine and shouts, "To Prince Aegon!"

"To Prince Aegon!" Everyone echoes.

"And to Princess Rhaenyra, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!" Father replies. He looks pointedly at his Hand.

Confused muttering breaks out, and fury flashes across Alicent's face before she smooths her expression back to a serene smile. Not for the first time, Rhaenyra wishes she was allowed more than a few sips of wine at feasts. In this life, she's going to fucking need the stuff.

.

.

After the feast, there is a change in the way Alicent treats her. The Queen's smiles are less bright, her embraces shorter. She spends more time with her ladies, and has less patience for whatever childish antics Rhaenyra feels like playing up.

The princess feels bitterness well up in her chest at this, as well as sympathy for her original counterpart. If she were truly a child, this would be quite damaging.

Father is too busy trying to gain her favor again to notice and Uncle Daemon is away, so that leaves her without allies, though the Rogue Prince barely constitutes as one. Her skin crawls at the thought of what he will try to do to her in a few years' time.

Rhaenyra has no dragon, either- she needs an impressive beast, and one that already has fame, not Syrax. If Father is intent on keeping her as his heir, she will need it sooner rather than later, and that means a trip to Dragonstone.

_And while I am in the area, I might as well try to curry favor with the Velaryons._

.

.

"Papa," Rhaenyra says, "I want to go to Dragonstone." Her father looks up from his meal. Alicent is not dining with them- she is still wroth- so it's just them. His eyebrow raises.

"Whatever for, my love?" he asks.

She widens her eyes ever so slightly and fidgets in her seat, ducking her head.

"I want to get a dragon, Papa, and I want to meet Cousin Rhaenys and her family!"

Rhaenyra gives her father her patented puppy-dog eyes, and, as always, he crumbles.

"Very well," he chuckles, "Very well. As you wish, we shall go."

She beams. Rising out of her chair, she kisses his cheek.

"Oh, thank you, Papa! You have made me the happiest girl in the entire world!"

.

.

A few weeks later, the King on the Iron Throne takes a ship with his daughter to Dragonstone, where she will claim her mount. Leaning against the railing, Rhaenyra looks at the looming fortress before her and realizes that whatever happens here will be key to her future.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I liked the first half of this chapter, but the second seemed clunky and awkward to me, so I might rewrite it.

_Dragonstone truly makes for an intimidating sight,_ Rhaenyra thinks as the ship draws closer inland. Built into the face of the Dragonmont, an _active volcano,_ it was raised by the Valyrian Freehold two hundred years before the Doom. As they approach, she sees statues of griffins and basilisks and manticores chiseled and slotted against the walls. The watchtowers are high, twisted and looming, and she has to crane her neck to see how far into the sky they go.

She could go on and on about how terribly beautiful the fortress looks, but Father's hand seetles on her shoulder.

"This is to be your seat," he says. She frowns at the reminder, and he laughs at the expression. "Do you think this place too dreary, my dear?"

"Not at all, Papa." Rhaenyra shakes her head.

"Then why do you sport such a frown?"

She hesitates and goes with a different truth. "I was only thinking, Papa. I'm nervous to claim a dragon, and I want to make a good impression on Cousin Rhaenys and her family. I have seen them before, but never truly met them." Father softens at that.

"Rhaenys and Corlys would have to be mad not to love you," he reassures, "And Laenor and Laena are pleasant children. You'll get along. Now the dragon, that is in the hands of the Seven, but you are my daughter, and the blood of the Conqueror. You'll be fine."

Rhaenyra doesn't believe in the Seven. If she's ever inclined to be pious, she will pray to R'hllor since at least that power has been proven. She doesn't put much stock in blood, either. For all the great Targaryens, there have been just as many failures. Still, she raises her chin and grins and squares her shoulders, trying to push down her anxiety.

.

.

Seven dragon keepers greet them upon their arrival, dressed in their signature gleaming black armor. Swords are at their sides and a row of dragon scales crests their helms, fading gradually down their backs. They bow as Father looks at them, sweat beading down his brow, face red with exertion. Rhaenyra swallows down the lump of nervousness in her throat.

"Your Graces," one of them says, "Welcome to Dragonstone."

.

.

They don't go to find her a dragon immediately. Father has invited the Velaryons to meet his heir, and she suspects he has bribed them with the possibility of a betrothal between her and Laenor. He wants her to be around dragons for a while longer, at least, before she tries to claim one, and Rhaenys and Laena both ride fearsome beasts. Laenor's own is no slouch either.

As their rooms are prepared and a meal is layed out, Rhaenyra decides that this will be her day of rest.

The real challenge starts tomorrow, with the arrival of her possible future goodfamily.

.

.

Rhaenys Targaryen is a woman who demands attention and respect. From an aesthetic standpoint, she's beautiful, with Baratheon-black hair and pale violet eyes full of intelligence, and a long, straight nose accompanied by the typical Valyrian bowstrung lips. She stands tall, for a woman especially, and as her father's cousin gives her a once-over, eyes narrowed, the younger Targaryen can't help but feel a thread of trepidation.

She forces herself to keep eye contact.

"Lady Rhaenys," Rhaenyra says, "It is a pleasure to truly meet you for the first time."

There's a beat of silence. Then Rhaenys cracks a smile.

.

.

Coryls Velaryon was a fascinating character from _Fire and Blood_ , one Rhaenyra had wanted to learn more about. Staring at him now, he's a bit larger than life. At three-and-fifty, his Velaryon silver-white hair is more white than not, but the locks are still full and they draw attention to his sea-green eyes.

His skin is weatherbeaten and drawn with lines, but he does not stand like an old man, tired and withered and diminished. He stands tall and proud, as if he were twenty years younger, and politely bows to Father.

"Your Graces," he says, and Rhaenyra takes immediate note of the title he uses for her, "As head of House Velaryon, I thank you for your gracious invitation to Dragonstone."

He is perfectly cordial, if a bit distant, and as his gaze moves to her, she straightens. There is ambition in his eyes. He sees in her the opportunity to right the wrongs done to his family.

It irks her a bit.

While she may have been outraged at the Great Council's decision as a mere spectator, while she may still be upset by it, she is no puppet to help him achieve his ends. She will be _no one's_ pawn.

As she smiles back at him, she bares her teeth a little.

.

.

Laena and Laenor are beautiful children. They look alike, with their father's hair and eyes a shade or two darker than their mother's, carrying classic Valyrian features.

There is something cold about their exchanges of greetings and welcomes, Rhaenyra thinks. But then Laenor smiles nervously, wringing his hands together and Laena offers to take her flying on Vhagar, and that seems to vanish. She offers Laenor what she hopes is a reassuring look and tells Laena she'll take her up on her offer, and any remaining awkwardness bleeds away.

.

.

"I'm going to die here!' Rhaenyra shrieks as they race through the clouds. Her arms are wound tightly around Laena's waist, holding on for dear life, and the Velaryon girl laughs. Seasmoke and Laenor are at their heels.

"You won't!" she shouts over the wind. "Mother says I'm a damn good flyer, and we're in a saddle. Besides, you need to get used to riding a dragon!"

With that, she pulls Vhagar into another dive.

Rhaenyra screams as the earth rushes up to meet them and wonders how terrible the consequences of murdering her are.

_._

_._

She does not, in fact, murder Laena.

.

.

When she goes to claim her mount a few days later, she does it on foot. Laena and Laenor both offered to carry her, but that doesn't feel right. This should be something she does without the help of a dragonrider.

(And even if it's foolish and doesn't matter, she doesn't particularly want to go chasing after dragons with the fresh smell of one already over her.)

.

.

It is imperative Rhaenyra claims either Vermithor or Silverwing. They are among the oldest and fiercest of the dragons, and the associations with either Jaehaerys or Alysanne can only help her case.

If the Dance breaks out- and as long as Alicent Hightower lives, it is sure to- dragons will be key. It is what allowed the original Rhaenyra to stay fighting for so long until the North and the Vale and houses from the Reach joined her.

Vhagar, Meleys, and Caraxes are already taken, so that leaves-

_Vermithor or Silverwing. There is no other choice._

.

.

It is hot here, with the Dragonmont's steaming vents and blazing ground and burning sun. As Rhaenyra struggles up the volcano, trudging slowly, she begins to curse herself for her earlier stubbornness. Going by air would have been very bloody useful right about now.

.

.

Somewhere along the line, she loses track of the dragon keepers which were sent to accompany her.

Alone and stranded, her vision blurs from both heat and exhaustion.

Something nudges at her arm.

.

.

Hours pass. King Viserys roars for every man to be sent to find his beloved daughter. Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor take to the skies in search of her, and he swears he will string up the dragon keepers who have lost her.

.

.

When Rhaenyra is finally found, she is leaning against the side of a dragon the size of a small horse, with scales of beaten gold. Its emerald eyes narrowed, it hisses in warning, protective of her. Its wings, the membranes pale pink, spread out.

King Viserys rushes to his daughter, only for golden flames to stop him in his tracks.

"Rhaenyra!" he cries. "Are you well?"

"As well as I can be," she replies through chapped lips. His eyes go to the dragon at her side.

"You have claimed a beautiful mount," he says. "Have you decided on a name?" She looks at it and begins to laugh, slumping forward until her knees touch the ground. Her mount screeches in alarm.

"Sunfyre," she gasps through her cackles, clutching at her ribs. "Can you believe it? Of all the dragons, it was Sunfyre."


	3. Chapter 3

Rhaenyra's skin burns with fever. Her mouth is dry and her head is pounding and her hair sticks to her scalp, drenched with sweat. Distantly, she is aware of all these things, but with spots dancing before her eyes and pain surging through her, it's hard to focus. She groans weakly.

A blurry figure appears above her. A moment later, something cool and wet is placed upon her forehead. She relaxes at the feeling.

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to ask where her father is, but her tongue is too large, too clumsy, and nothing comes out except for slurred nonsense.

"Hush, Your Grace," the figure says. When she struggles to rise, he- it sounds like a man- presses her back down against the mattress gently. "You must rest to regain your strength." Something- a goblet, perhaps- is pressed to her lips. Warm liquid slides down her throat.

Rhaenyra sees stars.

.

.

_Rhaenyra dreams. She dreams about a love found and then lost, about light green eyes, dancing with amusement, about flowing blond hair streaming in the wind, about a laugh that rings like bells, about a smile that could make any king bow._

_She dreams about a baby sister who worshipped her, clinging to her leg wherever she went, about a proud and loving father, her single greatest protector. She dreams about a cousin like a brother and a best friend racing after her ever since they could walk, about good-natured ribbing and bearhugs and snack-snatchers._

_She dreams about a world without dragons and swords and lances, about a world with the beautiful internet and electricity and running water._

_She dreams about going back, of wrapping her arms around everyone and everything she's ever loved and never letting go-_

_And it still slipping through her grasp._

_And she screams._

.

.

Rhaenyra jerks awake, gasping and clawing at herself, her eyes blurry with tears. _Come back,_ she tries to plead, half-leaning over the bed, _Don't leave me._ But it's too late and they're _gone,_ have been for _years,_ and the weight of the knowledge that she's all alone in this world comes crashing back, so crushing she doubles over.

"Your Grace!" a concerned cry rings out, but she's too busy fighting the urge to cry to care. Long, boney fingers reach out to grip her shoulders. Their owner shoves her back against her pillows. "Your Grace, you must stay still!"

Rhaenyra's vision is clearer now than it was before, and she sees the figure pinning her down. He's in his early forties, maybe, with a balding head of brown hair and dark brown eyes. He's thin but surprisingly strong, and he gazes at her with concern. A maester's chain hangs from his person.

"Maester Gerardys?" Rhaenyra blinks. He sighs in relief.

"It is I, Your Grace. I did not think you would know who I was, in truth, but luckily you do. You were quite distressed after I gave you milk of the poppy, but I am glad to see that you have at least gained some of your strength." He hands her a cup and she stares at it, suspicious. "'Tis water, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra takes a sip cautiously and, upon confirmation that it is not, in fact, another way to drug her up, gulps it down.

"Where is my father?" she asks. "I want to see him."

"I will send a message to the King right away, Your Grace, but you must eat first. Regain your strength. I'll have the servants bring you warm broth and bread if you do not think you can stomach much."

Rhaenyra is torn between vomiting at the thought of food or leaping at it. She shrugs noncommittally in the end, still shaken.

"Very well."

.

.

The broth isn't just warm, it's steaming, and it tastes amazing. Rhaenyra dips her bread in it and wolfs it down, suddenly overcome by hunger. When she's done, she dips her hands in a bowl of water and dries them. Then the King is summoned.

"Rhaenyra!" Father envelopes her in a gentle hug and she wraps her arms around his waist, smiling against his chest. "Thank the Seven you're alright. When you collapsed after naming you dragon, I was so worried-"

He cuts himself off to kiss the crown of her head.

"It's good to see you, Papa," she says. He melts.

"The Velaryons are still here, my dear. Lady Laena and Lord Laenor have offered to help you bond with your Sunfyre and Lady Rhaenys has offered to teach you to fly when he grows large enough."

At the mention of her dragon, Rhaenyra wilts. _I'd forgotten about that._

"Rhaenyra? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing, Papa. Just-"

"Let me guess. You'd hoped for a famous dragon, like Vermithor or Silverwing?"

She pauses.

"Well, yes-"

Father smiles indulgently and a part of her bristles at the patronizing tone his voice takes on. "Everyone wants to ride a great dragon when they are young, daughter. There is no shame in such fantasies. You have ended up with a beautiful dragon regardless, however. Do not disrespect him by wishing you had another."

_He literally killed my counterpart in another life-_

"Of course, Papa," she smiles sweetly. "I love Sunfyre very much already."

.

.

Rhaenyra does not, in fact, love Sunfyre. The little dragon who would have one day grown to burn her alive is a beautiful creature, no doubt, but as she stands beside Laena and Laenor, she eyes him distrustfully.

He stares at her curiously, head cocked to the side as if he's some kind of dog.

(She swears, his tail almost _wags_ )

"Go on," Laena says, "You're his rider. He won't bite."  
Rhaenyra barely represses a flinch at her terrible choice of words.

"You'll be fine," Laenor assures.

If she were back in her own world, she would be screaming, "Hell to the fucking no!" and running for the hills. But here, as a Targaryen, she can hardly be seen to be afraid of her own dragon. Much less as the heir to the Iron Throne.

Swallowing thickly, Rhaenyra steps forward. There is no Dragonpit here, no place especially made for the dragons besides the island itself, but Sunfyre was small enough to fit in a large stable temporarily, and when he had only tried to fly towards her instead of away, they let him out.

"Hello," she says cautiously. _Please don't eat me,_ she adds mentally.

Sunfyre approaches her with wide emerald eyes. His wings begin to unfurl slowly and his mouth opens. He screeches lightly, almost as if in greeting, and allows her to rest her hand along the scales along his back.

"He isn't a dog," Rhaenys says. "You mustn't treat him like one. Be respectful yes, but not too gentle. Be firmer."

And how in the fuck does she do that?

Rhaenyra stares down at this dragon of hers and looks him right in the eyes. "Hello," she tries again, this time with more steel in her voice.

The Queen Who Never Was makes a sound of approval.

"Not perfect, but that's a bit better."

.

.

A few days pass wherein Rhaenyra learns the basics of being a dragonrider from the Velaryons until she and Father have to return to King's Landing. Farewells are given and Father speaks to the Lord and Lady of High Tide privately for a while as Laenor and Laena and Rhaenyra wait at a distance.

Laena clears her throat and she turns to look at her.

"It was nice meeting you, I suppose-"

" _Laena,"_ Laenor hisses.

"-Do you think you'd want to write to us?"

Rhaenyra stops and considers. She doesn't see the harm in making strong allies of the Velaryons, especially if she's to marry Laenor, which she highly suspects. Now that she can't rely on one of the older dragons, she must reassess her strategy as well, though the thought brings on a throbbing headache so she files it to the back of her mind for now.

"Of course," she ends up saying, and the siblings look, to her surprise, actually pleased.

"Good," Laena says. "Good."

.

.

When Rhaenyra returns to King's Landing, it is not with the dragon she wanted, very obviously. Still, one giant, fire breathing lizard is better than no giant, firebreathing lizard, and Sunfyre was still a skilled combatant during the Dance. This can still work for her.

As Father begins to speak of a celebration in her honor, Rhaenyra lets it flow from one ear out the other. Absentmindedly, she twists the ring on her finger. There is so much to do, so much to plan, and she doesn't know if she can do this, survive the war to come. But there's no other choice now- Father and Alicent both have made sure of that.

She's not dying young a second time. She made that promise to herself long ago. She refuses to.

And if she can only keep one vow she has ever made in either of her lives, it has to be this one.


	4. Chapter 4

When you're ten years old, there's only so much politicking you can do. Rhaenyra takes every opportunity she can under the guise of childlike innocence. She serves as her father's cupbearer with no complaint, focuses on her lessons- things she's already learned- and excels, and only acts sweetly to everyone around her.

When Alicent distances herself and her ladies, she plays the part of confused, distraught daughter, and though there are still grumblings about how a daughter is before a son in the line of succession, she is beginning to catch disapproving murmurs about how Alicent is being cruel to the poor sweet visage she's built for herself.

Rhaenyra is careful when it comes to Aegon. She plays the role of doting big sister as well as she can, stopping to visit him and pretending to coo, but she, emotionally, does everything she can to keep him at arms' distance. If _Fire and Blood_ is to be believed, he only accepted the crown after it was pointed out that her original counterpart would not let him live when she ascended the Iron Throne. If she can make him love her, it's a good first step to avoiding the Dance, but the feeling cannot be reciprocated. You don't manipulate someone you love, and she needs him wrapped around her little finger.

So Rhaenyra throws herself into lessons and duties as her father's eldest child and dazzles the court, playing the part of overworked prodigy, and it works. The genuine and the lickspittles alike take note of her 'genius'- at least out of Alicent's hearing- and it looks even better when she goes to visit Aegon in the little free time she has.

As she's swamped in work and the delicate act that is making people love her, she practices speaking to herself, quietly and under her breath in the few moments she's alone, writes and writes until her fingers are smudged with ink, and never stops because in this world that will never let her don armor, she needs to have a poet's way with words.

She doesn't have time to stop. This is not about getting an A on a test or getting into a fancy college- things that she stressed about in her last life but feel so miniscule now she wants to laugh. This is about survival.

She will not be eaten by Aegon's dragon, even if it won't be Sunfyre anymore. She refuses to.

Speaking of Sunfyre, she spends time with him. It makes her uncomfortable- because who _wouldn't_ be unnerved by the prospect of the dragon who killed you in another life?- but she has to do it.

Rhaenyra hasn't officially been made Princess of Dragonstone yet, but it's clear to everyone by now that it's Father's intention. As such, she can't be seen as being afraid of her own dragon. So she forces herself, day by day, to spend as much time with him as possible. He's a beautiful creature, she'll give him that. As the days turn to weeks and the weeks to moons, her wariness ebs to neutrality. It seems unfair to blame him for something he hasn't done, and in her guilt some of her coldness melts. But there's still distance between them, and she thinks that Sunfyre, even though he's only a dragon, can sense it.

She exchanges letters with Laena and Laenor as frequently as she can as the War of the Stepstones rages on and they reply in turn. The elephant in the room is of course that their parents have commanded them to write her- Rhaenyra isn't a fool- but in time she begins to find Laena's lax approach to politics as a breath of fresh air and Laenor's quiet intelligence a respite from the loudness at court.

.

.

Aegon falls ill right before his first name day, and as Alicent worries and Father tries to reassure her that it's natural for babes to catch colds and fevers, Rhaenyra thinks that it will be much easier if he just dies.

It isn't a _malicious_ thought, only a matter-of-fact one, but still she freezes.

_When did I begin to think of a child's death as nothing more than a number? As an asset, even?_

She thinks back to her fury at Alicent, about how perfectly willing she was to kill her, and feels cold. Chewing at the inside of her cheek, she wonders just when Westeros began to shape her into what she is now.

(She will not face whatever it is she's becoming)

 _At least this is proof I'm not getting too attached,_ she thinks.

The thought offers little solace.

.

.

Even before the tourney which goes down in the history of _Fire and Blood,_ another occurs. Rhaenyra dresses in a dramatic black-and-red gown her supporters fawn over and Alicent wears what will become her signature green.  
  
Courtiers whisper furtively and look between the two of them. Father sees what he wants to and so notices nothing.  
  
Their factions are not named after the colors they wear yet. Perhaps that will require Daemon's dramatic precense after all.

Helaena is born later that year.

Aegon turns two.

.

.

"Daughter," Father says one day, "I am worried for you."

Rhaenyra looks up from her meal, her brow furrowed.

"Why ever for, Papa?"

"You work too hard, especially for a child." He places a hand upon her shoulder. "You have an entire lifetime ahead of you for duty. Enjoy the freedom of youth while you can."

The irony of the Targaryen equivalent of Robert Baratheon telling her she works too hard is enough to make a laugh bubble up in her throat. She coughs quickly to cover it up, shoulders shaking with barely concealed anger as she does so.

 _I wouldn't have to work so hard if you'd just made Aegon your heir,_ she wants to snap. _Or if you're intent on picking me for whatever god awful reason, support me more! Don't let your wife sabotage me!  
_ But she needs to stay in his good graces so she bites her tongue and throws him a bone.

"Sunfyre will be large enough to ride soon, Papa. I could go to Driftmark and learn from Lady Rhaenys and her children there. It would be nice to have a break, I think."

Of course, it isn't really a break. Leaving Alicent to run amok in the capital is a horrifying prospect, but so is entering the Dance without knowing how to properly fly, and that's even more of a death sentence. Rhaenys is supposed to be an amazing dragonrider, and so is Laena. Besides, being closer with them won't hurt her.

Father frowns deeply and Rhaenyra is sure he can tell this won't exactly be a break, but she widens her eyes and he caves.

God she loves having puppy-dog eyes.

A week or so later, preparations begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short chapter, but I didn't want to make the mistake of trying to stuff two chapters into one so here we are. A little info-dumpy but I wanted to show how Rhaenyra's been operating so far.
> 
> Next chapter will have more showing and less telling.


	5. Chapter 5

Say what you will about the Red Keep or its inhabitants, but it's a beautiful place. The nursery where Rhaenyra spent the earlier part of her childhood is currently holding Aegon and Helaena, and as she enters, a wave of nostalgia washes over her. It's a small but spacious room with pillows and toys dotted around the area. The walls are painted silver with threads of red, for there must be _some_ colors of House Targaryen in the royal nursery, and paintings and carvings of dragons are set against the walls.

Her brother, who is being cared for by his nannies, notices her first. "'Nyra!" He laughs in delight, shouting out that damnable nickname she's tried so hard to train him out of. He wriggles in his caretakers' grasp, and the poor woman looks panicked. Rhaenyra drops down so that she's balancing on one knee and stretches her arms out, grunting as he barrels into her.

"By the Seven, Egg," she groans, "You're getting strong!"

Aegon beams up at her, pride coloring his features, and his chubby cheeks rise as he makes the expression. Rhaenyra's fingers twitch. She reaches out to pinch a side of his face and he squeals in mock-indignation, even as laughter bubbles from his lips a moment later. The corners of her own mouth twitch in response.

"How has your day been, my dear Egg? Tell me all about it."

As her brother slumps and moans about the boredom and " _Where've you_ _ **been**_ _?"_ Rhaenyra settles into a chair, holding him in her arms. He is warm and soft and ever so delicate, and she's careful as she moves. She settles him onto her lap as he goes on and he shifts so that his face is buried in the crook of her neck, warm puffs of air making contact against her skin. The position is a tad bit uncomfortable, but if she moves, he'll take it as rejection and direct a hurt look at her for the rest of the day.

Aegon is just two, so he doesn't speak for that long, and he eventually wears himself down. Helaena is in the cradle next to his crib, which resembles more of a bed. Her brother yawns and swipes at his eyes, blinking hard. Rhaenyra's lips quirk up.

He truly is a beautiful child with his silver-gold hair and violet eyes and promising bone structure, which will make ladies swoon some day, if he doesn't ruin himself with gluttony, but even more than that, he's positively adorable. It's hard to see the man who would have grown to become her murderer in the boy whose dimples show every time he smiles at her, in the boy who shrieks with joy when she entertains him, in the boy who looks at her as if she hung the moon and stars.

_Stop._

This is a train of thought she'd rather not stay on. Rhaenyra does not love her brother, does not even hold affection for him, but what she's feeling now is uncomfortably close to fondness, and she does not dare to think of such a thing. Aegon does not notice the shift in her mood, nodding slowly off to sleep.

The nanny is still here, watching them with a soft expression, and she plays up the part of doting elder sister. Smoothing her brother's hair over his head, she moves to kiss his brow lightly. He snuggles deeper into her hold in his sleep. Rhaenyra stays still for a long moment- she doesn't want to disturb him- before handing him off to her. As she does so, Helaena catches her eye.

Her sister's gaze is wide and innocent, so guileless it hurts. Perhaps it's because she doesn't pose as much of a threat to her, perhaps it's Rhaenyra always found her to be sympathetic in her last life, but the thought strikes her as Helaena breaks out into happy gurgles upon noticing her that if she had the luxury of loving any of Alicent's children, it would probably be this one. Or maybe it's the fact that she brings back memories of her sister- her _real_ sister, before she was trapped in the hellhole that is Westeros. It's probably a combination of all three.

Whatever the reason for Rhaenyra's sudden burst of sentimentality, she shoves it down ruthlessly. She smiles tightly at the babe, a large lump forming in her throat as age-old pain begins to work its way through her chest. It stings, cutting deeply, and she turns away, murmuring a farewell to her siblings' caretaker.

She doesn't need this today, doesn't need the weight of the world crashing down on her, the crushing reminder that she's stranded here, that she's going to die here, that no matter what, life is going to suck. That she's either going to die at Alicent Hightower's indirect hand or spend her entire life waging war- literally and metaphorically- against the chauvinistic bullshit that is Westerosi culture.

Everyone she's ever loved- besides Aemma Arryn, her mother through and through, and _maybe_ Father, who she likes well enough, but who will never be the same as the original- is gone. She'll never see them again. It's a fact she's had to live with for twelve years now, but it still sends her into a panic sometimes, like when she was back on Dragonstone.

_I have to get out of here._ She needs fresh air, and the political atmosphere of the Red Keep, with all its spies and back stabbings, is suffocating. _Where can I go that would let me be free? Where can I go that no one would question?_

The realization comes swiftly: The Dragonpit.

Rhaenyra's Sworn Shield, Ser Harrold Westerling- because _fuck_ Criston Cole- is an adaptable man and quick on his feet, so when she announces she wants to leave, he hardly even blinks. She mounts a pony quickly enough and they assemble a few guards and then they're on their way, making a steady pace as she tries to keep her distress from being too obvious.

It seems like hours before they arrive. When they finally do, the dragonkeepers take note quickly. They bow sharply. Rhaenyra shoots them a strained smile, and it takes all she can do to not race to Sunfyre, who will at least give her the excuse to have some space if nothing else.

Speaking of him, the dragon seems to have picked up on some of her distress. He roars loudly, wings fanning out, and everyone tenses. But Rhaenyra is his rider, and he will not harm her, so the dragonkeepers stay back. She herself falters for just a fraction of a second, the image of her counterpart stuck in her mind- and in hindsight, going to see the dragon who would have killed her in another life might only make things _worse-_ before forging on.

Sunfyre grows quiet as she draws closer, calming, and she tells her company to give them space. They oblige. Rhaenyra is wearing a dress, so she folds her legs diagonally in front of her body, sitting to the side. She has to look somewhat interested in this dragon of hers, so she reaches out to stroke his scales, which is ridiculous considering he's a beast of incredible destruction rather than a _dog,_ but oh well. He breathes out a plume of smoke at the action.

Rhaenyra focuses on the feeling of scales beneath her fingertips, of the heat which radiates off him as smoke curls from his nostrils, and slowly her panic ebs away. _This is nice,_ she realizes with surprise. Simply sitting here with Sunfyre is enjoyable, even if it doesn't really have anything to do with him specifically.

That's good.

The more comfortable she gets with him, the better off she'll be.

She stays in the Dragonpit for a good long while.

.

.

The day Rhaenyra leaves for Driftmark, Aegon is inconsolable. He wails his lungs off, unable to really comprehend what's happening besides the fact that his big sister is leaving him, and she takes vicious satisfaction at the ill-concealed fury on Alicent's face. Using a child to get back at his mother is… morally questionable, to say the least, but knowing that Alicent thinks she's stealing her precious son from her brings forth a delightful thrill that she can't ignore.

Rhaenyra lifts Aegon into her arms and promises to bring gifts upon her return. "I'll be back before you even realize I was gone," she promises, and then she kisses his forehead and everyone in attendance who is not a Green coos at the display of sisterly love. She lets him go, holding him close for a moment longer, for his own sake as well as hers- if she releases him too early, he'll get upset, and then that'll make _her_ upset because she'll have a toddler's snot all over her and her eardrums will be shot.

Then she says her final goodbyes and gets onto the ship that will take her to the Velaryons.

.

.

Driftmark is different from Dragonstone, but it is no less inspiring. The seat of Rhaenyra's forefathers is terrible in its beauty, giving off auras of dread and blood, and violence, even, to a lesser extent, fascinating and enrapturing but thoroughly miserable to anyone who is not of the dragons. Driftmark, on the other hand, is all vibrance and color, pulsing with life and people and the kind of blood that stays in your veins.

There is no stain of the Freehold at High Tide- because no matter what they accomplished, Rhaenyra is well aware of the blood her ancestors' hands are stained with- with its pale stone and slender towers, crowned with beaten silver that shines in the sun. Servants unload everything Rhaenyra will need for this trip quickly, making imprints in gravelly sand. Sunfyre, for safety's sake, is close to Rhaenyra.

Lord Corlys makes his way to her, dressed in a sea green doublet with a white undershirt, silver trousers, and brown boots, a cloak draped over his shoulder so it resembles more of a cape. Lady Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor circle above, landing a distance away so as to not disturb Sunfyre before heading towards her.

It has been two years since Rhaenyra has seen them last. Lord Corlys looks much the same, still silver fox he was last time, and Rhaenys is not too visibly different with the exception of a few silver streaks lining her black tresses. It is Laena and Laenor who are the most significantly changed.

She does a double take when she sees them.

Laena has grown into herself. Her hair cascades down her back in ringlets, framing a sharp, angular face shed of all child fat. High cheekbones accentuate her violet eyes, her willowy frame suits her natural grace well, and her bowstrung lips- _don't stare, Rhaenyra-_ curl upwards as she grins in greeting. And Rhaenyra has never hated the thought of having to go through puberty again more than right now as her prepubescent (though can they really be called that since she's nearly a teenager?) hormones begin kicking in and a slow flush starts crawling up her neck. She just hopes she doesn't say anything stupid to embrass herself.

"Cousin." Laena bows, a merry lilt to her tone.

The reminder that they're related is enough to snap Rhaenyra from her stupor. She hides her grimace at the fact that she was just ogling her cousin- first, second, it's still gross- and curtsies in return.

_Let's not go gung-ho on the wincest thing. We haven't been Targaryen for_ _**that** _ _long._

That thought, as well as the fact that while she may look a few years older, she's still only seven-and-ten, effectively kills any interest she might have had.

"Laena. It's good to see you again."

She turns her attention to the Velaryon heir.

Laenor is built much the same as his sister in both frame and face, but he's taller still, and lean. There's a bit of muscle to him, though not much, and his face has become more severe, though not in a bad way. It draws attention to his cheekbones, his eyes, his aquiline nose, and she knows he has many ladies swooning, though of course he'll only have eyes for his Ser Joffrey soon if he doesn't already.

"Lord Laenor," Rhaenyra says softly. "It pleases me to see you well."

He bows more deeply than his sister did and his smile is smaller but warmer.

Corlys and Rhaenys speak to her for a few minutes, making reintroductions for themselves and quick footnotes about what her visit here will be like before telling her they can brush up on the details after they eat. It's noon, and Westeros doesn't have an equivalent to lunch, though snacks and pseudo-meals are a thing, and tea party-esque lady's circles, so Rhaenyra has some time to just relax and acclimate herself before getting to business tonight.

She's thankful for that.

Servants take her belongings as she's guided to the rooms which have been prepared for her. Sunfyre is guided near the other dragons, though with enough distance that he can decide when he wants to join them.

"He'll need to be used to them by the time you go flying with us," Rhaenys explains.

Rhaenyra's belongings as well as her dragon begin to be integrated into Driftmark while she heads to her chambers, where she promptly faceplants onto her bed and groans into her pillow. She utterly despises travelling, which is less than ideal considering she'll be doing a lot of it in the coming years, swaying lord after lord to her side, but it is what it is. Wariness overtakes her and her eyes drift shut.

.

.

For the next moon, Rhaenyra will be staying at Driftmark. As such, she adapts a routine by the end of her first week after getting a saddle fitted for Sunfyre. In the early mornings, she breaks her fasts and then takes her lessons with Driftmark's maester. In the late mornings she'll go on a short run with Rhaenys and Laena to increase her endurance. Laenor will come too, sometimes. At noon she'll have a light meal to replenish her energy, though it can't really be called lunch. From afternoon to sunset she'll train in the skies with Sunfyre.

The first time she clambered on the dragon's back, she'd been terrified, shaking like a leaf, palms sweaty. "It's natural to be nervous," Rhaenys had assured her. Then she'd hounded her into commanding Sunfyre up. After a minute or two, the terror had faded to the back of her mind and she could enjoy being in the sky. Once she caught a wind of that rush, any and all earlier intimidation was gone completely.

During the break in between running and flying, Rhaenyra alternates between activities. Sometimes she'll take a nap, other times she'll go to High Tide's library or explore the castle.

Today, she finds herself reading about Elissa Farman- a woman Corlys admires greatly, if she remembers correctly, a woman whose audacity impressed her in her last life- when footsteps become apparent. She looks up, a brow raised, to find Laenor.

"Oh." He looks surprised to see her here. "Hello, princess."

"Laenor," Rhaenyra sighs, "You've been writing to me for two years now, and I've been here at Driftmark for two weeks. I think you can call me by my name."

The Velaryon heir looks hesitant for a moment, chewing his lip, and she jokingly adds, "I don't bite."

That, for some reason, seems to break the awkward hesitation. He smiles a small smile and gestures to the book on the table. "What are you reading about?"

"Elissa Farman."

His eyes light up.

"Father speaks of her often. He used to tell me and Laena stories about her when we were little, and Mother would be torn between approval and disapproval because she stole from House Targaryen, but she also stole from the Old King."

Rhaenyra doesn't snort at that- it's more like she breathes out harshly through her nose- but he starts laughing in earnest after she makes the sound. "Sit," she says, gesturing to a chair beside her. "Please."

He doesn't hesitate.

For the next hour, they talk about this and that and everything and nothing, breaking out into fitful giggles about the most trivial things, and she almost feels like a child again.

.

.

Her bonding moment with Laena comes a few days later. Her body is more used to the running by now, though she still gets hungry, and they've just finished eating when the topic of brothers comes up for some odd reason or another. Rhaenyra mentions how she promised Aegon to return bearing gifts and her head cocks to the side in thought.

"There are beautiful seashells close by the beach," the eldest Velaryon child comments. "I could help you find them."

Rhaenyra looks at her in surprise. She gets along well enough with Laena, but they aren't thick as thieves. They aren't close enough for her to make an offer like this.

"Father told me to gain your favor, and while I don't like politics, he'll grow cross if I don't. Besides, this only helps me. I get to go outside and clear my head," she explains. There's a long beat of silence wherein Rhaenyra just stares at her in disbelief. The older girl returns the look unapologetically, eyes twinkling with mischief.

The princess begins to laugh. "Oh, I like you," she gasps through her cackles. "How will I ever go back to the viper's pit that is King's Landing now that I've experienced your brutal honesty?"

"You'll miss me dearly," Laena teases, "As everyone tends to. I've heard I'm rather magnetic."

"Indeed, I will," Rhaenyra agrees. Then she stands, pushing her seat back, and extends a hand to the Velaryon. "Now, I promised Aegon gifts, and while I rather doubt he remembers that by now, I'm not one to break my word. Show me these seashells, my lady."

Laena pulls herself up using the offered limb, though Rhaenyra thinks she doesn't actually need the help, and grins in response.

For the next hour and a half, they go looking for a proper shell for the little prince. They're bone tired when they arrive for flying lessons and Rhaenys is irritated, but as she chews them both out, Laena offers Rhaenyra a lopsided smile, and she thinks it was worth it.

.

.

In the end, Driftmark proves to be the respite Rhaenyra needed. She wasn't really resting as she kept up with her studies and learned to fly and so on and so forth, but here, she hasn't had to watch her every step in fear of someone spotting some imperfection, and that makes all the difference.

"I will miss you and Driftmark dearly," she says honestly when it's time for her to leave. Laena ruffles her hair and Laenor smiles in sympathy.

"We'll write to you," the siblings promise. And she takes solace in that.

Corlys and Rhaenys bid her adieu as well, both seeming pleased that their children have made such a valuable connection, but the former especially.

"You have potential to be a great flyer," Rhaenys says, and from her, that means the world. Rhaenyra swells with pride. "Keep working while you're at King's Landing."

"I will," she promises, and the older Targaryen's eyes flash with approval.

Farewells are made and things are packed up, and it is with a heavy heart that Rhaenyra returns to King's Landing. But she's had a rest from politics now, and with a fresh mind, her resolve has strengthened.

She thinks she's ready for what happens next, which is a good thing considering the coming years: her tour across the Seven Kingdoms, which will be exhausting, Aemond's birth, unless she's magically managed to change something major she's not aware of, and Daemon's return, which will be a blessing, a curse, or both.

Rhaenyra sighs deeply at the very thought of her upcoming brother. Another sibling to make adore her, and the one who will undoubtedly be the most difficult of them all to boot.

_Oh, joy._

Not for the first time, she wonders if there is a God, and if He's laughing at her from wherever he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> No lie, I think this is the longest chapter I've ever written, and I'm damn proud of that fact! Hopefully I can keep it up. Plot was kinda slow this chapter, but I hope the characters make up for it haha.
> 
> Next chapter or the one after should wrap up this little arc, if it can even be called that, and then we should get to the more interesting plotline of Daemon crashing the tourney. Trying to knock the stuff concerning her childhood out earlier while still including the important stuff so we can get to the politicking.


	6. Chapter 6

Rhaenyra’s teacup is scalding in her hands. She sighs deeply before taking a sip, revelling in the taste of it, in the way warmth washes over her when it hits her tongue, and hears desperately muffled giggles. Cracking an eye open, she sees Lady Elinor covering her mouth with a hand, her sister, Lady Leonette, looking at her with the first real emotion she’s had since they got here: mortification.

“Elinor!” she hisses. Rhaenyra’s lips twitch. 

“It’s quite alright, Lady Leonette. I am aware about how comical I must look as I enthuse about my tea.” 

“See? It’s fine, Leonette.” Lady Elinor’s cheeks have gone pink at her sister’s scolding, but there’s a smugness in her tone now that she knows she’s not in the wrong that reminds Rhaenyra painfully of someone else. Her smile fades somewhat. 

The siblings before her are potentially vital to Rhaenyra’s campaign. They may not fight on the front lines if it comes to that, gods forbid, but by making them her ladies in waiting, their father, who already supports her, will, and their eldest brother too, if he survives. 

Ladies Leonette and Elinor are Lyonel Strong’s daughters, the unnamed sisters of Harwin and Larys in _Fire and Blood_. They have the typical looks of their family- brown hair, brown eyes, and pug noses. At five-and-ten, Leonette is three years her senior. At eleven, Elinor is one year her junior. 

At twelve, it’s time she has ladies-in-waiting of her own, and Rhaenyra plans on making these two among them. House Strong is influential, with their seat of Harrenhal, and if they marry well, that could rope in two other decently powerful houses. Besides, only accepting one of his daughters could be perceived as an affront by Lyonel Strong on the snubbed one’s behalf, and she has no time to sooth the egos of powerful men when such a thing could be easily avoided. 

But first, she must get to know them. She needs to know if they’ll make good confidants in the future, if they’ll be capable of serving as her eyes and ears with their skill for intrigue, or if they’ll be better used for charming her own court once she holds Dragonstone with their political savvy. It seems absurd to be analyzing children- they’re even younger than she was when she died- but this is what the world has come to. 

Elinor has already proven herself to be the more blunt of the two, though more charming as well, whereas her sister seems more reserved. Leonette is not… standoffish, exactly, but even at five-and-ten there is a reservedness about her, an aloofness that is on its way to coldness. Leonette thinks before she speaks, is more tactful, as well. Rhaenyra knows she is perceptive because they have been here thirty minutes, and in that time her eyes have scarcely left her, taking note of as many details as possible. And that- her perception, her attention to detail- could be incredibly useful. 

“What tea did you order, Your Grace?” Elinor asks. She smiles warmly. “If you enjoy it so much, I may have to try it.”

“Nettle tea,” Leonette replies. 

_There it is._

Rhaenyra hides a smile at the interaction. 

“Indeed, Lady Leonette. And I must say, it is a delight.” 

“It must be, if you’ve given it your praise,” Elinor says. Rhaenyra is one-hundred percent sure she was told to flatter her, to stoke her ego, but the delivery is casual, easy- and impressively so for a girl of all of eleven- and it takes her aback for a moment. 

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra replies.

They chat for another hour or so, making smalltalk about this and that because no side wants to admit that this is really an investigation on the other, before going their separate ways.

As Rhaenyra leaves them, she thinks that _Fire and Blood_ did wrong by them. They’re young, yes, but they’re clever and show promise already. The least the book could have done was mention their names.

.

.

They keep up these little meetings for the rest of the moon. By the end of it, she goes to Father and asks for permission for them to become her ladies. He obliges. 

.

.

“Did you hear?” Leonette asks, tone impassive, “Lord Otto has been removed as Hand of the King.” 

Rhaenyra has, in fact, already heard this delightful news. She raises a cup to her lips to keep her smile from being too obvious. “Yes, my lady,” she replies, and it takes everything she has not to crow these words. 

“Who do you think the next Hand will be?” Elinor makes her way into the conversation. 

_Your father._

“A man worthy of the position,” Rhaenyra says. She keeps her own tone light, so the girl doesn’t seem to notice any implication- the one that Otto Hightower was not, in fact worthy of it. Her elder sister’s eyes narrow in thought, though, at the wording, and the princess reminds herself not to grow too comfortable with these girls too quickly.

“I am sure that will be the case, Your Grace,” Leonette says. And it’s whispered, like a promise, like she already knows her father will get the position.

This one- Rhaenyra likes her.

.

.

The sweet taste of victory does not last for long. Realistically she knew it would not. The benefits are still in play- one of her supporters is in the second highest office in the Seven Kingdoms, after all- but her good mood is ruined as whispers and rumors begin swirling in the Red Keep. 

Alicent has been sick. In the mornings. And she has recently developed a taste for apples every day. 

_Seven Hells._

She’s known this was coming, known she’d have to deal with Aemond’s arrival, but the thought of him exhausts her already. Along with Aegon, he could be the greatest attribute or the greatest enemy- though not to the extent he would be in canon, because Rhaenyra fully intends to keep Laena alive, one way or another- and turning him to her side will be difficult, especially when she holds Dragonstone and can’t see him as often as she’ll want to. It will be easier for Alicent to poison him against her than it would be for Aegon, because his brother, at least, will have fond memories of her by the time she leaves, whereas he might barely recall her face.

It is not an ideal situation. 

Rhaenyra considers slipping Alicent some moon tea, but swiftly rejects the thought. For one thing, she doesn’t have the resources yet. She will, when she’s older, but not now. For a second thing, even if she did, there’s no guarantee she’d get away with it. And if she were caught-

The consequences aren’t something she wants to think about. 

So Rhaenyra grins and bears the smug announcement, plays the part of the adoring elder sister _again,_ and never lets anyone in on how she’s screaming on the inside. 

And when Aemond is born in the following year, in 110 AC, right on schedule like Aegon and Helaena before him, she weeps. “For joy,” she says, wiping at her tears. “I am truly blessed by the gods to have such a large family after so long.” 

And even as the tears which fall are from alarm and fear and pent-up stress she’s been needing to let out for ages, even _with_ her trip to Driftmark, her Blacks, though they are not known as such yet, and the undecideds in Father’s court- really, everyone who isn’t a Green- speak of sweet Princess Rhaenyra and look at her with a newfound fondness. They think she’s a good person, that’s she’s genuinely thrilled to finally have more family.

She wants to laugh at how fucking wrong they are on both accounts.

She might have even done so alone, in the privacy of her chambers, if 111 AC wasn’t coming up. If Daemon Targaryen wasn’t arriving soon. 

As it stands, she’s too anxious to do anything besides plan and plan and plan and hope that everything she's been building so carefully doesn't splinter to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I’m not happy with this chapter. It’s fine, I guess, but it seems mediocre. I tried several times though, and this is the only semi-acceptable thing I managed to vomit out, so here we are. Might rewrite it if a whim strikes me, we’ll see. Pacing starts to slow down a bit more when Daemon arrives. And by that, I mean that not every chapter will cover a year or two lol.


	7. Chapter 7

Rhaenyra sits stiffly beside her father in his great box overviewing the tourney field. It's not even noon yet, but it's warm out. There are no clouds today and the sun shines brightly. Birds chirp at a distance. It seems like a perfect day, where one should be overjoyed, but the pleasant conditions do nothing to quell the storm raging in both her heart and her mind.

Rhaenyra knows she probably looks worse than normal. For the past week, she's gotten little sleep. This body is better looking than the one in her last life, she'll be the first to admit, so she doesn't look dead on her feet, but there are bags under her eyes that she knows have been worrying Father. She hasn't eaten much either. An apple here and there, a chunk of bread, some broth, maybe the occasional egg. Every time she's tried to have something substantial, her stomach has twisted to knots. That worries Father too.

He hasn't pried, not yet, but she knows it's only a matter of time. And what can she tell him, when he asks what's wrong? That his disgusting excuse for a brother will try to seduce her, will do his damndest to capitalize on whatever vulnerability she has to get her into his bed, that if she rebuffs him, he may very well decide one day that it's in his better interests for her to die? That one day, a war may very well break out between her and Aegon that will leave them both dead, and that without the Rogue Prince's support- and Caraxes, of course- her life expectancy is cut drastically? That from the moment she was old enough to understand the hell she was dropped into, she's been fighting her entire (second) life to not be one of the countless casualties in the war his wife started after his death?

Rhaenyra would like to see the look on his face if she were to tell him all these things. Alas, she can't, so she turns her attention to her siblings.

"'Nyra," Aegon says cheerfully. He extends his arms out towards her and she smiles indulgently, rising out of her seat to pick him up and settle him in her lap. At four, he's getting a bit big for it, but she's willing to accept the mild discomfort if it means he'll hold her closer to his heart.

Alicent shoots her a venomous glare as Father smiles on.

If Rhaenyra has managed to change one thing about politics so far, it is the fact that Alicent's popularity is not what it could have been otherwise. Father's court does not see her as the stepmother from hell- which she _is-_ but some neutrals _do_ regard her with disapproval for her treatment of Rhaenyra. This has forced the queen to try to undermine her in less direct ways, which have thus far been less effective since her reputation is impeccable.

Alicent wears what will become her signature green after this tourney. Her gown is gorgeous, the princess has to admit, in both its cut and its shade. It hugs at her curves without being obscene- by Westerosi standards, of course- dipping down to expose the curve of her collarbone but nothing more. It's a light forest green, bright and airy, and as the sunlight hits it, it looks mottled.

Rhaenyra, by comparison, has gone all out on the colors of House Targaryen. She wears a black silk gown, laced with streaks of red. These lines are embroidered to form the image of two coiling dragons at her shoulders. A simple silver ring- more a band than anything else- adorns her right index finger, a necklace of the same metal slipped around her neck. A pendant in the shape of a three-headed dragon hangs from it.

_It seems I have a theme today._

Aegon reaches out for it and she blocks his hand gently. He pouts and she laughs. Helaena babbles beside her mother, wanting to join in on the fun. "We'll play later," Rhaenyra promises her sister.

The tourney begins.

.

.

Without Criston Cole, Rhaenyra has no significantly talented champions. Gwayne Hightower rides well and proceeds up the lists without the future Kingmaker to unhorse him, and his sister glows with pride. Rhaenyra would be irate if this were any other situation, but here, she would much rather suffer Alicent's smugness than Cole.

In any case, the moment she's been dreading comes before any victor emerges.

There's a screech from a distance, and a great shadow falls over the tourney fields. Rhaenyra stiffens. Aegon, who is still seated in her lap, notices her darkened mood and fidgets. She reaches out with a shaking hand to take a sip of watered wine from her goblet.

Caraxes spirals down, red scales gleaming in the sun. Rhaenyra's eyes narrow against the harsh light, her heart hammering in her chest. She can just make out a figure upon The Blood Wyrm. As the dragon lands, he slides off his back.

Rhaenyra feels herself move Aegon off of her. She stands numbly, distantly aware of Father and Alicent doing the same.

Uncle Daemon, she has to admit, is a sight to behold like this. His hair is more silver than gold, his eyes a brilliant amethyst- words cannot _describe_ how much she hates the fact that they resemble hers- and he stands tall and lean in his plated black armor, a red cloak thrown over his shoulder. A circlet- iron studded with rubies to resemble the Conqueror's crown- rests upon his brow. With Dark Sister sheathed at his hip, he looks like the Warrior incarnate.

"Brother!" the Rogue Prince shouts. His voice reverberates around the area. "So good to see you again!"

Father's eyes narrow in response.

"Daemon. I see you have returned from your war for the Stepstones."

"So I have."

The conversation goes as it did per canon. Daemon offers Father his crown, Alicent seethes at the presence of her former lover, and the court watches on in shocked fascination as the Rogue Prince is welcomed back by his brother with open arms. Rhaenyra's uncle strides up to the royal box confidently, pausing when he catches sight of her. His eyes sweep across her frame as she curtsies in greeting. Her hands itch for something sharp.

"Is that any way to greet your beloved uncle?" he teases. Jaw clenching, she wraps her arms around him for a few seconds. It takes all she has to not shiver with disgust. The hug is not long enough to raise any eyebrows, nor is it in any way more than a niece greeting her long absent uncle, but coming into contact with him makes her skin crawl.

"I'm glad to see you well," she replies with a smile."

"It's been a long while since I saw you last." Daemon's eyes bore into her own. "You have grown to be a beauty."

Rhaenyra is suddenly very glad there's nothing sharp in her immediate vicinity she'd be able to grab, because if she had a knife, she's not sure she wouldn't have tried to slit his throat already. She twists the ring on her finger- a habit, she remembers at this inconvenient time, that was one of the counterpart's.

"Thank you, Uncle." Something tugs at her hand and she turns to see Aegon. She squeezes the limb back, grimacing at the clamminess of her palm. "Egg, this is our Uncle Daemon. Uncle Daemon, this is Egg."

The Rogue Prince eyes his nephew coldly and Aegon's gaze lowers to the ground. Rhaenyra bristles. Her brother is a child. Alicent Hightower's child, but a four year old nonetheless. And she might not love him as she would, say, Baelon, had he survived, but seeing _Daemon_ treat him this way makes her skin go hot and her vision go red and something _angry_ coil up in the pit of her stomach.

"You're Alicent's whelp, boy?" Daemon asks this, but his tone is flat.

Aegon nods timidly.

"He is," Alicent replies frostily. Rhaenrya's uncle turns to her stepmother, and the temperature of the box drops. His mouth draws into a thin line.

Before anything else can be said, Father speaks up.

"We're having a banquet tonight," he says, "To celebrate my and Alicent's fifth year of marriage. You can come, if you'd like."

Daemon looks like he's prepared to refuse, and Rhaenyra prays to the gods he does, but then he catches her eye. "Perhaps I will," he replies airily. She bites her lip to keep from screaming.

.

.

When Rhaenyra and her ladies begin freshening up for the banquet later that night, she keeps Leonette behind for a moment. The elder Strong sister frowns.

"Is something the matter, Your Grace?" she asks.

The princess hesitates.

"I have something to ask of you, my lady. Will you sit?" Leonette settles in the chair across from her.

"Of course, Your Grace."

"I need you to promise me," Rhaenyra whispers, "That you will stick closely to my side for the foreseeable future. That you will never leave me alone save for baths and the like."

The elder Strong girl's face morphs into alarm before settling into her usual stoic mask. "Your Grace-"  
"Please, Leonette-" Rhaenyra slips into informality here and winces, "You'll understand soon enough, if this is truly necessary. If it isn't, you won't need to worry." She twists at her ring.

The elder Strong sister eyes her carefully. "I am at Your Grace's employ," she says eventually, neutrally. "If you wish for my company, I will not deny you it."

"Thank you," Rhaenyra says.

Brown eyes meet amethyst, unable to completely hide the curiosity within their depths.

Still, Leonette only nods.

.

.

Rhaenyra's plan is designed to have two purposes. For one thing, Leonette's constant presence will hopefully keep Daemon from making too many advances. For a second, it will show Alicent- and the court- that she is close with her, and, by extension, House Strong. Having such blatantly important supporters will be useful, but she wishes she could flaunt them in better circumstances.

Rhaenyra detests these fucking parties of her father's, she remembers as she sits beside him. They're an incredible waste of money which could be used for better things like actually caring for the smallfolk, for one thing- it's not as if they're on a royal progress- and for a second, it means she has to act all night long. Putting on her carefully designed mask during the day is exhausting enough, but having to wear it well into the night- which is usually her own time- is horrid. Dealing with Alicent, as well, is a headache and a half.

The celebrations are in full swing with the banners of House Targaryen hanging from the walls, the banners of House Hightower a bit below them. Courtiers dance in the space given and men reach out and grope serving wenches. Rhaenyra's fists clench hard around her goblet at that last sight. She takes a sip of wine.

Her entire body is riddled with tension. Daemon hasn't arrived yet, but he's bound to soon, and while he may use his time to tear Alicent apart as much as he can get away with, it is equally possible that he'll turn his attention to her. Her fingers flex once, twice, around the butterknife in her free hand at the thought.

_I'll be fine. He can't be untoward towards me, not in front of all these people. And I'll have Leonette for the rest of the time._

Speaking of Leonette, where is she?

Rhaenrya's eyes scan the room. It takes her a few seconds, but she spies the members of House Strong sitting a distance away. Harwin is saying something to his sister, and she looks impassive as ever.

The princess almost cracks a smile at the familiarity of her impassiveness, but she can't quite bring herself to.

"What's wrong, Rhaenyra?" Father asks. Frowning deeply, he leans to her. "You have not been yourself tonight."

Too late, she realizes that while she hasn't been showing her misery outright, she hasn't been smiling or laughing either. Her eyes widen in alarm.

 _Who else has noticed?  
_ The last thing she needs is people thinking she's the bitter stepdaughter.

"Nothing, Papa," Rhaenyra replies swiftly, plastering a smile onto her face quickly, "Everything is perf-"  
The doors to the banquet hall burst open. The music stops and everyone turns to look.

"Prince Daemon Targaryen!" an attendant announces.

Rhaenyra's blood freezes in her veins.

Turning slowly, she's reminded of how her biggest problem tonight won't be her not looking happy enough. With dread sinking like lead at the pit of her stomach, she turns to meet her royal uncle.

.

.

_**A/N: This was very much of a set-up chapter for this arc, but I liked it! The next one will hopefully be longer though.** _


End file.
